


Flowers for the Sun

by mautadite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Character Study, F/F, Romance, margaery likes girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conversations in Margaery’s room, and a lesson in five parts.</p><p>(Margaery does what she does best, and adjusts.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers for the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Femslash February. Pre-series; Margaery is thirteen. An exploration of her queerness and her character. The biggest smooch goes out to [Ingrid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Stonestrewn) for pointing out inaccuracies, giving advice, and general hand-holding. What a gal, what a writer, what a friend! ♥
> 
>  **Warning** for discussion of attempted rape.

**i.**

“I’d like you to kiss me,” says Margaery one afternoon, perched on her bed with her hands clasped in her lap. Her eyes hang upon the back of her maid, who is carefully packing away Margaery’s blue silk dress, taking great care not to crush or mishandle the delicate cloth. Layla’s hands are thin, bones rippling like pebbles beneath her skin, but she is ever so gentle. Margaery likes it best when she brushes her hair, not Justine; Layla treats her chestnut tresses like gems, and never protests too much when Margaery wants to brush hers too.

For a moment, she thinks that she was not heard, but then Layla stands, and on her way to the window to collect the yellow muslin dress, she swoops down, and presses a quick kiss to Margaery’s cheek.

Margaery smiles, watching Layla bustle back to the chest. Layla is only two years older than she is, but she is terribly single-minded. It’s not something that she can quite be blamed for; Justine is a hard, firm teacher, and has been with the family since the age of ten. Layla has learnt everything by her hand and at her knee; has learnt to count victories in gentle nods and broken trinkets. Margaery will not try to undo her upbringing; more than anyone else, perhaps, Tyrells know the value of serving well.

She crosses her ankles and waits. Layla’s hair is bright and peasant-yellow and long, resting against what Margaery’s lady mother calls ‘the unfortunate over-swell’ of her hips. It is true that Layla is more curved than the others girls of fifteen that Margaery is acquainted with. Solid warmth resides in each line of her body, always gentle when she presses close to Margaery in the whisper of the night.

“That’s not what I meant,” she explains patiently when Layla finishes her task and stands, facing her. “A proper kiss, like a knight would give his lady.”

An unsure laugh is her answer, and Layla springs into motion again, collecting the feather duster from where she left it near the door.

“Lady Margaery,” she says, sing-songy and exasperated. Layla only calls her ‘lady’ when she is being reprimanding or reproachful; it is sweet. “Don’t tease; I am no knight, and you know it well.”

“So I do; no knight with clanking fingers and rough hands could braid my hair ever so well as you do.”

The compliment makes her smile, as Margaery knew it would; she takes a moment to appreciate the ruddy blush on Layla’s cheeks, and know that she coaxed the blood into rising there, into colouring her skin in a red no painter could ever master.

“I wasn’t teasing you, you know,” she continues as Layla checks the surfaces of the room, cloth in one hand, duster in the other. The flowers that she collected earlier this morning stand bright and vibrant in a vase. “I do want you to kiss me. On the lips, for a long time,” she makes sure to clarify, just in case it’s needed.

Something like worry, like dubiousness shadows Layla’s eyes when she looks at Margaery this time. Her blush remains, like a tattletale.

“You shouldn’t say things like that. Imagine if Septa Nysterica heard tell, or your lady mother.” She fumbles, and bites her lower lip in a way that says so much. Especially to Margaery, who is learning how to listen. “She wouldn’t let you read those lovely tales of knights and ladies to me anymore; she’ll say they’re going to our heads.”

Pride crawls up Margaery’s back like a vine, straightening it.

“But my lady mother won’t hear tell, will she?” When Layla tries to sweep across to the next side of the room, Margaery captures her by a wrist, and pulls her down to sit on the bed next to her. Gently, she coaxes the cleaning things out of Layla’s hands and lets them drop to the floor. “And you needn’t worry about the Septa.”

She smiles reassuringly, and Layla smiles back before she can tell herself that she shouldn’t. Margaery cups her maid’s thin hands in her own, feeling the lines and the marks and the thick bunches of calluses, and thinking them beautiful. 

“You… we shouldn’t, you know,” Layla continues to protest unsurely. “You should save such things for your young man, when you become betrothed. Or one of the boys who’ll come courting, if you don’t want to wait for your betrothal.”

Margaery does not deign to mention that that is a done deed; a shy second son of one of her lord father’s bannermen had made a suitable candidate days ago. The kiss had been soft, and pleasant enough, but pleasant is not what Margaery seeks. A yellow curl lingers on Layla’s forehead, and Margaery brushes it away.

“Do you not love me?” she gives for reply, and Layla makes a face immediately.

“I love you best, Lady Margaery, you know that.” She sounds miffed that Margaery would even let that question breach her lips to offend her ears. Margaery touches her cheek in apology.

“And I you. You’ve been such a good friend to me. A little kiss wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

Layla chews on her bottom lips, and it’s easy to see the exact moment that she capitulates. Margaery knew that she would, of course, but seeing it in action is fascinating.

“Very well. One little kiss.”

Permission gotten, Margaery scoots closer. Layla’s eyes are a plain brown, and they shine with nervousness and verve. Her cheek is warm where Margaery touches it. She is always warm. Nights in the Reach are never too chill, but Layla’s is the kind of heat that spreads when it needs to. Margaery closes her eyes, feeling her lashes bat against her maid’s nose, and breaths softly through her parted mouth until gentle lips touch hers and the warmth travels down.

 _Ah_ , she thinks.

~~~

**ii.**

“No, go on, I want to hear the rest of the tale,” says Margaery, and the giggling around her stutters to a halt. Megga wears a look like gleeful terror, Alyce glances around as if to search out a spy, and Ryssa’s finger finds a home on her lips, twisting there in nervousness. All other eyes are on Margaery.

“Well... you know… you know!” Ryssa’s voice raises a few octaves in pitch. “I’m not meant to say it, am I?”

Margaery slips from the bed, shoos the lone guard near the door, and closes them all in. That is, she expects, what’s bothering them all. She’s not sure why. Ferland is a soldier, and has surely heard things far more gruesome than can be expected to be heard at a gathering of young girls. She says as much, when she takes up her place on the pile of cushions on the bed.

“But _we’re_ not supposed to be saying these things, are we?” Megga pipes up. She’s the least scandalised, it seems, but she pretends to be, anyway.

“I don’t see why not,” Margaery says, tossing her hair over her shoulders. “If Ryssa saw it, then she should be able to talk about it. It’s just good sense.” The girl in question looks like she needs a bit of reassuring, so Margaery pats her lightly on the hand. Ryssa is older than the other girls but younger than Margaery, third daughter of a lesser branch of the family. This is her first time at Highgarden, and she spontaneously checks all of her words. She scratches her cheek under Margaery’s coaxing, smiling shyly.

“Well, I suppose…”

“There, I’m glad you agree. Go on, then. The two stable boys were embracing, you said?”

A giggle ripples around the room before dying down again. Ryssa blushes hard.

“Yes, they were.” She pauses, and upon realising that every eye in the room is once again upon her, she goes even redder. “Embracing like a lord and a lady might, in that dark little corner. I think one of them might have been crying.”

Alyce starts nodding vigorously, as if this somehow makes sense to her. Ryssa nods back, and continues.

“They stayed locked together for a spell. And eventually, they… well, they…”

Margaery rolls her eyes, not unkindly. The last word is said so softly she has to strain to catch it.

“They kissed, did you say?”

There are, of course, a few shrieks, some giggles, several sounds of distaste and disgust. Margaery is young, but she is old enough to know that this is what the girls think is expected of them, or else what they have been taught to show. None of them are quite old enough to really know what it means. It is curious, she thinks, how such a seemingly insignificant thing can inform behaviour in so many ways. Curious indeed, she thinks, and looks at all the gleaming surfaces about her room that always shine under Layla’s studious care.

“Do settle down,” she says finally, not bothering to raise her voice. “Megga, sweetling, don’t open your mouth so when you laugh. It’s not so shocking, is it?”

“It isn’t?” This from Alyce, who looks wide-eyed, but more wondering than shocked. Margaery arranges her skirts neatly around herself as Megga snaps her mouth shut. 

“I don’t see why it should be,” she replies. There is something in her chest that pushes her shoulders back and lengthens her neck.

There is a pause, as the girls consider this.

“But they can’t be wed, can they?” one of the younger girls speaks up. Margaery smiles kindly.

“No, they cannot.” For many of the girls, this settles everything. For what is love, without a wondrous gown, a magnificent feast, standing before the Mother and the Father with a new heavy mantle to weigh on the shoulders and push the bosom forward? Margaery too thinks of her own inevitable nuptials, of a dress to steal the breath and a feast teeming with song and laughter, but seldom of the person whom she will stand and face before the eyes of the Seven. To her, it matters not.

“I overheard,” Megga ventures, “my brother saying that it happens more than people think.” She giggles nervously. “Boys with girls, but also boys with boys.”

More tittering; Megga has spoken the words no one has quite been bold enough to say. Alyce goes a step further, stuttering out her next question.

“And… a-and girls with girls?”

“Nay, everyone knows that never happens.” This interjection is from Ferland, poking his head into the room, and at the sound of the deep, teasing male voice, the girls break out into shrieks and giggles. The uproar is sudden and striking, and Margaery doubts that any of them hear his next muttered words, that he launches towards her with a wink. “After all, what would they do?”

Margaery keeps her chin high and her back straight, keeps smiling her coolest smile as she swallows down her reply to Alyce. What it would have been, she is not sure, but it is now lost to the lines of her throat and the dull anger in her stomach.

“Ferland,” she says gamely, “welcome back. Do be sure to apprise me of all other changes.”

The solider loses his mischievous grin, and steps fully into the room, spine stiff.

“Changes, my lady?”

“Changes concurrent to the one that allows you entrance to a lady’s room without her leave, and without a pressing need for urgency, of course.”

Shame stains his cheeks, as well as a healthy dollop of surprise, and it is no wonder. She has always been friendly and more lenient with Ferland, and for a moment, Margaery regrets her unkindness. 

“Begging your pardon… I just came to say… Cook sent a message that she would be a little late with your cakes. My lady.”

“And now your message is said. Thank you, Ferland,” she adds to ease the sting, and the soldier slips out with his eyes fastened to his feet.

As ever, Margaery feels the magnetic pull as she turns, and carries with her all the eyes of the room. The girls look up to her with wide irises and cupped faces and unsure humour, and that will be enough this time, she thinks.

“Come Meredyth,” she says sweetly, and pats the spot next to her. She makes no mention of their previous topic, and so neither do her guests. “You were telling us of all the progress that you’ve made with the lute. Let us have a song.”

~~~

**iii.**

“Have you kissed him yet?” asks Margaery, and watches the flood inundate across her brother’s handsome face. Shock, narrow-eyed disbelief, wariness… She hopes that she has not miscalculated, and made him angry; she would hate to sour what time they have together. Opportunities to see Loras are rare, ever since he became squire to the king’s brother.

Lord Renly is bright and beautiful below them, framed in the arch of the window and in the sanctity of Loras’ eyes. The summer-sweet roses of Highgarden are in bloom; their golden strains ring the courtyard through which Renly and Garlan stroll, talking and laughing. Loras’ eyes are golden bright too, and they meld to his lord with their shine.

Instead of answering, he turns his back to the window, leaning against the sill, and pins her with his sternest stare.

“And just what,” he begins, arms folded, “does my sweet sister know of kisses?”

Margaery bares her dimples, all too willing to play this game. 

“She knows enough,” she asserts, standing on the tips of her toes and wrinkling her nose at him. 

“The giving and the getting?”

“That is where one starts, I am given to believe,” Margaery chuckles, and spares a calculated glance down into the courtyard as well. Layla crouches in a corner, gathering flowers for her baskets, with the wind ruffling her skirts and her bright yellow hair a beacon down her back. 

Loras says nothing for a while, and she’s a bit disappointed, really. She gave that one freely. Studying her brother’s face again, she creases her brow. For all the levity of their words, Loras wears tight skin and an even darker mask. Margaery doesn’t think she’s wrong – she rarely is – but she is aware that it is a possibility. A look at the line of Loras’ spine reassures her; it is as if every muscle works in a concerted effort to _not_ turn, to not look upon Lord Renly as he would wish to. 

Knowing too well the feeling of a vice-like grip upon the eyes, restricting their gaze, Margaery approaches her brother. She smiles when she has to tiptoe to kiss his cheek. They were of a height, once, but lengthy days of training in the heat of Storm’s End have stretched him out lean and tall. Loras is not long for knighthood.

“And my handsome brother _does_ know that I always find myself cheered when he is here to receive my kisses?” She reaches round for his other cheek, to press her lips to the line that forms as he begins to smile. “No matter what? Or has he been knocked about the head so many times as to forget how much I do so love him?”

Loras shakes his head, and Margaery has the pleasure of looking up into a smile that she might have drawn onto his lips with her own hands.

“He knows it well, worry not,” he says, and lays a kiss of his own upon her forehead. That said, she finds it easy to slip an arm into the crook of one of his, turn him away from the high pale walls of her room, and towards the window again. Renly and Garlan are stationary now, in an arch that provides solace from the bite of the sun. Her brother gesticulates languidly and the young lord bites into a peach.

Next to her, Loras’ arm relaxes with his sigh, and Margaery knows that she has not erred.

Layla is still in the courtyard, now tucked away in another corner, filling up her basket. The pink variety is her favourite, she’d once admitted to Margaery, but the golden ones fascinate her; there is nothing else in nature that burns with the luminosity of the golden roses of the Reach. Layla strokes their petals reverently, and always picks too many.

“She likes me to tell her that she can keep a few for herself,” Margaery confides, nudging Loras and pointing a dainty chin at her maid. Her brother does not smile as she does, but he does look closely at the maid before turning his gaze to Margaery. She returns it pleasantly.

“Layla, was it not?” he asks.

“You have the right of it.”

He glances back towards Layla. All of her baskets are full, but still she crouches near the hedge, breathing in the scent of the flowers surreptitiously. She seems, Margaery thinks warmly, near intoxicated with the odour.

“She still serves as your chamber maid?”

Conscious of the question beneath the question, Margaery bumps her brother’s hip with her own.

“Of course. Why should she not? I am well fond of her.”

Her brother nods slowly. She can see a bit of pride creep back into his shoulders, and settle there with determination.

“I am well fond of Renly, too.”

Margaery takes him in, her tall, haughty, beautiful brother, and has never been prouder to be a Tyrell.

“And no,” he continues, turning to face indoors once again, mouth dipping into a frown, “I have not yet kissed him. Though that fact cannot be blamed on a lack of effort.”

“Is the attraction not returned?” The thought seems unlikely. Rare though his – _their_ – inclinations may be, Loras can charm the bloom off a rose and flirt his way through a storm. No one is impervious to his smile, not even dashing young lords.

“No, I’m quite sure it is.” His frown seems to deepen. “He’s simply reluctant to act upon it. He thinks me still a child, and too young to be sure of such things.”

Margaery cups her brother’s cheek, sparing a glance over his shoulder to catch Lord Renly in her eyes again. She knows, without being told, that the decision to foster Loras in the Stormlands was made to strengthen Tyrell ties to the throne. What good luck it would be, however, if even more could come of it.

She kisses the smooth cheek.

“Well, dear brother, your task is clear.” The wind is pressing gentle and she steals the gold from his eyes. “Show him how you’ve grown strong.”

~~~

**iv.**

“I’m sure that you are mistaken, Grandmother,” says Margaery, and clasps her hands behind her back. Layla, the silly dear, is still hovering and curtsying near the door; Margaery dismisses her with a clandestine flick of the wrist. Distractions won’t be helpful in the conversation that is to follow.

The Queen of Thorns watches the maid bustle away, making no move to detain her. Settled in the armchair near the hearth, her features suggest disapproval. Margaery, who knows better, is prepared for her cackle-like laugh.

“Good, that’s good, start practising from now! You’ve got a good face for half-truths; everyone’s always too busy looking at your pretty smile or otherwise that bosom to see beneath the beneath. Don’t, though,” she warns, wrinkly old face going from amused to stern within the bat of a bird’s wing, “get used to trying it on me. Your old grandmother isn’t as daft as all that, child; I know what I saw.”

What she saw is a matter for debate; even though they’d had no proper warning, Layla has been practising, and can go from laughing softly into that delicate space that is neither Margaery’s neck nor shoulder to dusting out an ornament in a matter of seconds. It is obvious, nonetheless, that her grandmother is reading from more than just sight and action. Layla’s blush when the old woman had barged into the room might as well have been a furnace.

The maid is no doubt terrified out of her wits at the moment, and she will have to sort that out and soothe her later. For now, Margaery does what she does best, and adjusts.

“Perhaps I’m the one who’s going a bit soft; I really do have no idea of what you speak.”

She says it, and then she smiles, sitting on the edge of the bed that is closest to her grandmother. For one moment, the old woman looks so fond, and Margaery thinks that she is about to be embraced, which she would welcome. 

“Heh,” the Lady Olenna says instead, ramrod straight and yet as relaxed-looking as ever in the chair. “Too good at that by far. Thank the Seven you take after me.”

Margaery takes the compliment, and sets it aside.

“What will you do?” she inquires.

“Me? Surely nothing. Without that child – Lila? Lyssa? – you’d have to depend on Justine, and she’s half the reason why I’m going bald.”

She gives her grandmother the chuckle that she wants, and breathes a grateful sigh. There is no mention of informing her parents about this thing that she has discovered about herself. That is a dream. She is not Loras, a third son and second knight of the family, with years of glory and renown before him, no more hopes upon his bosom for allegiances and heirs. She is Margaery Tyrell, the Rose of Highgarden, and she must go far.

“Your words are duly noted, and much appreciated.” 

Her grandmother studies her with her sharp little eyes.

“I’m beginning to think this is some kind of plot, you know. First Willas had the good fortune to match up with that Martell snake, then Loras proves he likes poking sticks with his own both in and out of the tourneys—”

“Grandmother…”

“And now this. I’m beginning to think that Garlan might be my only chance to see great-grandchildren out of your four. Which is mayhap not a bad thing altogether, mind you; Tyrells are supposed to grow strong, not grow like weeds.”

Margaery shakes her head, laughing.

“Are you not being a bit overly hasty? You will see me wed yet, sweet Grandmother.” She tilts her head. “After all, what other path would I take? Can you imagine me in the robes of the Silent Sisters, or a Septa’s gown? I’d look dreadful.”

The Queen of Thorns narrows her eyes, and Margaery bears the weight of it with regal mien. A generation and a world of differences separate them; courteous and sharp, youthful and timeworn, demure and biting. All the same, the same earth birthed them, and the same blood links them, and their commonalities swing low between them. Margaery loves her grandmother and knows she is loved in turn, and this family has need of them both.

“Pah!” says her grandmother at last. “Don’t put sugar in your mouth to speak to me, I told you; I’m anything but sweet and you know it. And aye, I may yet see my doltish son wed you off, or I may not. You may become one of those old crones, or you may not. Don’t bother an old woman with thoughts of things yet to pass.” She pauses, her wizened old face screwed up with wrinkles. “You are young, Margaery.”

She nods, smiling in a fond way. When she sits up straight, their postures match.

“I am young, but I am sure.”

“Sure that you’ll be wed one day, or sure that you won’t be suffering any men between your legs unless you must?”

Margaery blushes at her grandmother’s crude words, but nods her agreement once again.

“Both, in fact.”

The flint hard eyes that seize upon her are small and shrewd, but what might be a smile is playing upon her lips.

“Come here!” the Lady Olenna orders suddenly. “Give this old woman a kiss.”

Margaery does as she is told, grinning softly as she perches on the arm of the chair, and presses two quick kisses onto a paper dry temple. Her grandmother’s tiny hand curls around her waist, and gives it a small squeeze. Margaery rests her nose in the off-white hair; it is brittle, but sweet-smelling. 

“The chambermaid, really,” she hears. “You really are a descendant of Garth Greenhand. At least when you’re older we won’t have to worry about you planting a bunch of little roses.”

“ _Grandmother_ …”

~~~

**v.**

“One little kiss,” said Margaery on that afternoon, so many months ago, but of course, it escalates into more than that. Margaery attends her lessons, practises her needlework and her lore, entertains her little retinue of cousins and allied offspring, and performs as is expected of the youngest and most beautiful of Highgarden. Layla bustles from room to room in the castle, following orders and never shirking her duties. 

The nights are theirs.

Layla remains coltish and nervous for nigh on a week after the Queen of Thorns, but Margaery soon soothes her back into her arms. She appreciates the maid’s fear, for what repercussions that may come will fall much harder on her head than on Margaery’s. ‘But what if’ and ‘next time’ are frequent shadows on her lips, but Margaery lifts her chin and gently assures her like she did her grandmother.

“A next time will not come.”

They settle into a gentle routine. Each night that Layla is able to, provided that Margaery is not entertaining any guests, she lingers after her preparations about the room are complete. She’ll check the hearth, adjust the ornaments on the mantelpiece, fix the sheets and examine for dust in every likely place. They’ve been sharing a bed for years, but now, Layla seems to want to wait for permission, to give Margaery the chance to change her mind. It is sweet.

Tonight is no different; after Layla has brushed her hair with a loving hand until the shine of it is bright as the moon, and seen Margaery tucked into bed, she continues to flit about the room with a sort of restless energy. Margaery’s eyes follow her as she plucks the hair from the brush and throws it into the fireplace, touches the petals in the flower baskets and vases. They are beginning to brown and wither, Margaery notices; Layla has not changed them in more than a week. Curious. Certainly not like her.

Margaery allows her a few minutes before calling to her.

“Would you bring me the brush, please, Layla?”

She crawls forward on her knees as Layla bobs her head and complies. This is one of her favourite parts of the evening; Layla, already in her nightgown, sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, and loosens her long rope of hair. It is even prettier awash in candle flame and moonlight, and Margaery spends a full minute just touching the strands.

“Oh, Layla,” she sighs as she begins running the brush through the river of gold. It snags and catches, but she is always patient with the knots, waiting for the soft tresses to yield their shine. “I always have to remind myself that jealousy does not become a lady when I look at your hair. I wager the sun must go down at dusk out of pure shame, unable to bear existing beside such a rival for a moment longer,” she teases.

“My lady could flatter a fish out of a pond, couldn’t she?” comes the exasperated, but pleased tones, and Margaery’s laugh is like a bell.

Once Layla’s hair is brushed and braided, and the brush put away, they delve beneath the covers. The smile that takes the heart of Margaery knows a twin in Layla. She can still see the high blush upon her maid’s cheeks, risen there and remaining after all of the attention. Usually, Margaery would use this time to read a story to her, or ask her of her day, but tonight, Layla’s lips are very red. She scoots forward.

Kissing is easy and sweet. She cups Layla’s face in her hands and presses their lips together, surer and slower now, after a few months of practice. The first moments are the best, when they lie together in warmth and in solitude, mouths softly pressed together to form the dearest of secrets. Gentle puffs of air fan against her cheek, and just Layla’s hand on her shoulder makes Margaery feel very warm. 

Margaery pulls back, and pushes in again, pressing soft, lingering kisses against the red mouth. Layla smells like the hard, simple soap that the servants use, and she is moving forward, hand taut on Margaery’s shoulder and moving down to her arm. A finger holds Margaery’s chin in place, and then she is tucking her bottom lip in Margaery’s mouth, and searching for her top lip. They make the quietest of sounds when they pull apart. Margaery hums pleasantly, eyes closed, and takes a slow breath.

“I miss the roses,” she says. Layla has begun to shed her shyness, and is pressing a kiss to Margaery’s collar bone when she pauses.

“The roses?”

Margaery places a small hand on Layla’s curving hip.

“You usually spend so much time in the gardens and the courtyards that the smell of them gets into your clothes and your hair and even your skin. It’s gone now. Why is that?”

Layla shrugs, and tucks a stray bit of hair behind an ear.

“I’m not sure I know,” she says, and breathes another kiss into Margaery, pressing deep and long. Curious indeed, Margaery thinks.

Layla’s nose nudges her own as they twist, getting more comfortable. Margaery opens her eyes mid-kiss, and is rewarded with the sight of Layla’s flushed, freckled face, close up and magnified by the contentment in her eyes.

“Can I do something?” Layla asks, eyes still closed.

“You may,” says Margaery, intrigued. Layla opens her eyes, seemingly just to blush some more, before touching Margaery gently on the swoops of her cheekbones, one after the other.

“Will you, um… will you open your mouth?”

She blushes even harder, and Margaery is too interested to do anything but nod her agreement, and comply. She lies quietly in the muted light with her mouth slightly parted for a few seconds before she feels the sheets rustle. Layla moves back in, and is kissing her again, sure and slow. It is like any other of their kisses for yet a few seconds more, before a shy tongue reaches out to touch her lips, and teeth. It gets as far as to touch Margaery’s tongue for a brief second, and in that instant, she feels as if someone has soaked her with a bucket of ice, and then blazing hot water, one after the other.

Before she knows what she is doing, she reaches for Layla’s neck to stop her retreat, and coax her back in. They lie suspended for a minute, the only movement that of their tongues and mouths, speaking the language that only they know. Margaery opens up for Layla like a flower for the sun. 

Her breath is a little shuddery when they pull apart. Layla’s eyes are open again, nervous and flickering, like the flicker of Margaery’s heart.

“Did you like that?” she asks in a whisper, and Margaery’s heart grows turgid with fondness.

“Oh, Layla,” she responds, clasping her hand. “That was the nicest kiss I’ve ever had.”

It is true, and it is also the right thing to say; Layla, who had been threatening to droop like one of the flowers on the mantelpiece, raises her sunny head anew.

“It was? …It was the nicest kiss I’ve ever had, too.” Her smile seems well-deep. “All of my kisses with you are lovely.”

Margaery leans forward to kiss the older girl’s nose, feeling the weight of the unsaid. Her mind runs on the fraying flowers, yielding their pinks and golds up for browns and beiges.

“Will you tell me then, why you haven’t been frequenting the gardens as of late?”

The question knocks Layla a bit off-balance; she seems to have thought that Margaery would forget. Earth brown eyes skitter away from her gaze. It immediately makes her feel ill at ease; Layla has always been comfortable looking her in the eyes, whether told to or not.

“It’s nothing, my lady.”

“ _Margaery_ ,” she insists. “And I would have you tell me of it anyway. I do not like to know that you are unhappy.”

“I am not unhappy, my Margaery,” Layla hurries to say, sounding utterly miserable. Her slip of the tongue goes unnoticed, and Margaery is not unkind enough to point it out. “I don’t wish to—”

Margaery quietens her with a kiss to her knuckles. Older the other girl may be, but something like a sisterly worry curls in her breast.

“Please tell me,” she says simply.

There is a swelling pause, and Margaery watches as emotions run with sleek and silent foot across her face, settling on the same sort of nervous hesitancy. Margaery rubs fingers across her knuckles and waits for her to speak.

“Wendell,” says Layla eventually, the name slipping out heavily, like an anchor. “One of the gardener’s apprentices. He… he has… taken a liking to me, I suppose.”

Margaery nods, still holding on to her maid’s hand, and susses out what has not been said.

“And you wish to avoid his company?”

“I do.”

“So much so that you would give up one of your favourite pastimes?” Margaery presses gently, trying to hold the brown eyes with her own, and Layla frowns. Every word she speaks seems to render her more and more upset.

“I don’t want to give it up; you know how much I love picking flowers for you. Wendell is just…”

Layla trails off, and shifts restlessly against the sheet. Her eyes shy away again, and anger and understanding grip Margaery at the same time. She squeezes Layla’s hand.

“And what has Wendell done, to show how much he likes you?” she asks quietly, but firmly.

“He… kissed me,” Layla admits, and Margaery bristles to hear how _guilty_ she sounds. Her Layla has done nothing to feel guilty about, and yet it is extant in her voice. “I didn’t want to, I really didn’t! It’s just… he cornered me in the storehouse and told me I had to stop being so coy with him, stop… giving him looks. I never did, but that’s what he said. And then… then he pushed me down, and kissed me.”

Throughout the telling, Margaery’s eyes widen, her mouth flattens, and her pulse quickens in a choler thick and strong. She sees Layla, in all her sweetness, with all her quips, and the thought of someone taking advantage of her, treating her roughly and unkindly, makes the most awful feeling knot in her stomach. When she speaks, it is slowly.

“Did he…?”

Layla’s eyes widen as well, and she shakes her head vigorously, still looking unhappy.

“No, no, he didn’t, I swear it on the Mother. Someone came in, and he got off me. He didn’t… I am still…” Layla gives up on the phrase, and looks at Margaery with imploring eyes. “Please don’t get upset just for me, Margaery, I—”

“‘Just’ nothing.” She remembers to be gentle, despite her anger. “Have you told anyone else?”

She is met with a sad shake of the yellow head.

“No… well, there’s the other apprentice who came in and saw. He…” Layla swallows. “He told me I was lucky to get off with just a kiss and a groping. And I asked Justine what I should do if a young man on the grounds had his eye on me, and she told me I ought to simply avoid the grounds when I could, if I knew what was good for me. And so…”

She trails off, looking nervous, even more so when Margaery does not speak immediately.

“Please don’t be upset.” She rushes to kiss Margaery’s cheek, cool and soft, and then her brow, where she can feel the wrinkles creasing. “It’s really nothing. It might have been so much worse.”

Margaery looks down at Layla’s hands for a long minute. She dislikes it all: the way that Layla seems to think that she could not, and should not have told, the way that it does not occur to her to seek justice, the way others will cast it aside as that other apprentice did, never to think on it again. Layla is only a woman, only a maid, and it was only a kiss. No one will take this seriously, and no one else will see the hurting brown of her eyes when she harks back to the forced encounter.

It is enough to make her furious. 

“I know that it might have been worse,” says Margaery finally. “Allow me my anger, nevertheless. You are dear to me, and I would not have you treated with such disrespect and disregard.”

To her surprise, Layla begins blinking rapidly, ostensibly against coming tears.

“Layla…”

“You have always treated me as a friend,” she says with a quivering smile. “You are always so kind.”

The maid angles forward, and her kiss is slow and light, just a touch. _I am not so kind as to forget this_ , Margaery thinks, but does not say. She returns the gentle pressure, wanting to erase the mark of this man who thought that he could take what was not offered. Layla sighs gently against her mouth, as if guessing her purpose.

“That was the _second_ nicest kiss I’ve ever had,” she says, and it makes Margaery smile.

There are so many things that she wishes she could do, and so many of them she knows to be impossible. Each kiss that she has given Layla and was given in return is precious to her, from the first gentle one that fluttered awake the awareness in her, to the more insistent, pressing ones of late. To have stolen such a gift should be a crime.

She knows that she must keep this thing that she has discovered about herself a secret, and knows that Layla must too, but she will not see her maid suffer like this. If there is another thing that she has discovered about herself, it is that she may well have a bit of the North in her; she always remembers.

“I would have the scent of roses upon your skin again,” she whispers, touching Layla’s lips with a finger. The same digit runs up her cheek to collect her unshed tears. They balance on her finger as if on a steel thorn. “And I will.”

Layla’s sleepy questions rest unanswered in the quiet of the night. Margaery curls an arm about the firm waist, and feels the callused fingers gripping at her arm in turn. It is a cool night, and the window stays ajar to let the room breathe; the scent of roses from the courtyard permeates the air, and sleep is not far behind.

~~~

A week later, Wendell the gardener’s apprentice is accused of stealing from the Queen of Thorns. Though he swears up and down that he never would dare, and that he has indeed never even laid eyes upon that wing of the castle, several servants report spotting him nearby on the day of the theft. There is also, of course, the irrefutable fact that the Lady Olenna’s baubles turn up amongst his belongings, ferreted away between smallclothes and old bottles. Hidden well, but not well enough.

Justice is swift; Wendell is relieved of his post and of his right hand before the week is out. Margaery sits by the window in her room of an afternoon, practising her needlework and watching Layla gather flowers in the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments appreciated! I’d love to know what you think; writing this meant a lot to me. :)


End file.
